


February is for Johnlock

by MargueriteSomebodyoranother



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'll add tags as we go, Introspection, M/M, Not in any particular order, Not necessarily related stories, Oh Lestrade is in here now, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prompt Fic, Some Fix-its, Sort Of, some AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29153631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargueriteSomebodyoranother/pseuds/MargueriteSomebodyoranother
Summary: An attempt at the February Johnlock 2021 prompt challenge set by ohlooktheresabee.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 37
Collections: February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge from ohlooktheresabee





	1. Secret

**Author's Note:**

> It's a day late, but hopefully it's worth the read anyway.

John Watson had a secret that he tried to hide from everyone.

He was dangerous.

He realized it when he left a boy in stitches for teasing his sister to tears. John had been made to apologize, but he did it with a tight smile and a low voice that said “sorry”, but really meant “Next time, I’ll do worse”. He hid that part of himself behind a rakish smile and an easy laugh, but no one teased Harry in John’s presence after that. 

He confirmed it when he enlisted and his life became blood and sweat and sand and tears. Wielding a SIG or scalpel, John dared to force Death to bend to his own will, bidding Death to claim its prize from the enemy, yet allowing no quarter when it came to his own men. Of course, one could outwit death for only so long, so it was no surprise when Death came to claim its due, embracing John as he begged for his life in the blood-drenched sand.

He knew it when he spent hours staring at the SIG he wasn’t supposed to have in a city that had no use for someone who could be neither a soldier or a surgeon. John had sacrificed everything, and had nothing to show for it. What was the point if only emptiness remained?

The most dangerous man is the one who has nothing left to lose, after all.

But that changed when he met Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, the man was a bit public school and posh as fuck, but Sherlock was an event horizon that John couldn’t escape any more than he could have escaped the insurgent’s bullet that got him here in the first place. He was _smitten_. John already knew that he wanted so much more than the frantic fumbles in the dark he had in Afghanistan - he wanted to take the man apart, leave him panting and writhing and moaning John’s name as if it was the only word worth knowing.

When John left the police standing around the body of a man he had put there for Sherlock Holmes, he tried again to hide himself behind cuddly jumpers and a charming smile, but cerulean eyes laid bare John’s secret, and answered with a madness of their own. 

Later, when plush lips made sweet with plum sauce and desire crashed into his own, John knew that his secret was safe. 


	2. Allergies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hopeful that posting a day late doesn't become a regular habit, but I'll take my victories where I can get them.

_“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”_

Sherlock supposed that playing the violin at all hours or occasional bouts of silence weren’t quite the worst of his habits, but one could hardly blame him for being circumspect in his shortcomings. He’d been prepared to dismiss John as another dull friend of … Mark’s? Mitchell’s? _Right, Mike’s_ … when they had first met, but _oh_ , he recognized that look, the one behind the army doctor’s eyes that screamed for alleviation from boredom. How _interesting_.

Sherlock hadn’t bothered looking for a flatmate before John. He knew he needed one, but everyone was so dull, dull, _dull_. People tended to be closed-minded and would demand strict adherence to etiquette and decorum and conventionality, none of which Sherlock could be arsed to care one whit about. But John, _John_ was different. He didn’t want _normal_ any more than Sherlock.

Still, it wouldn’t do to reveal all of Sherlock’s eccentricities at once, so he began with ones more suited to convention. Remarkably considerate on his part, surely.

If only John Watson were so forthcoming.

John, apparently convinced that Sherlock was clairvoyant and wouldn’t mind anyway, failed to disclose that he suffered from an allergy to dust.

Loudly.

Every morning, sometimes mere minutes after Sherlock had finally fallen asleep, he would startle awake to witness what had to be a record-breaking marathon in nose-blowing. The first time it happened, Sherlock dreamt that a mad elephant had somehow broken into Baker Street and was in the process of murdering John with a duck playing a trumpet, and had fallen out of bed in his haste to witness the spectacle for himself. He burst into the loo ready to rescue his flatmate - certainly not to witness how a duck could be used as a murder weapon by a two-ton mammal without any hands - only to find John by himself and staring back at Sherlock through the mirror, red eyes wide with surprise at his abrupt entry.

Sensing the end of his own sanity was drawing near, Sherlock tried in vain to convince John to take some pills or a shot of something. Anything, really. But doctors truly do make the worst patients, and John steadfastly refused, claiming that he didn’t like how antihistamines made him feel, and that he was usually better by lunchtime, anyhow.

Sherlock considered the Wednesday he slipped promethazine into John’s tea as a failed experiment that didn’t bear repeating. The man didn’t even wake up until Thursday midmorning.

Although he’d never admit as much out loud, Sherlock considered this battle with John’s allergies as one of his rare losses. There was simply nothing to be done for it, and, he supposed, if John could tolerate thumbs in the crisper and eyeballs in the microwave, then he could tolerate John’s adenoid clangor. It became comforting, in a way. Sherlock bearing witness to John’s vigorous nose-blowing meant that they were home, far away from snipers and semtex vests and psychotic consulting criminals with a penchant for darkened swimming pools.

Sherlock would wake up to the sound of John battling his mucous membranes every day for the rest of his life, if it meant he could keep him just a little bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to Ariane DeVere, whose transcripts were instrumental in saving me from rewatching the episodes, and getting sidetracked (again) into a Sherlock marathon instead of writing like I should be doing.


	3. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If bravery was, by far, the kindest term for stupidity, then this soldier found a way to make stupidity look good.
> 
> An alternate first meeting in the alleys of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few hours past the deadline, but not too bad, considering my previous additions.

He lost track of how long it had been since he fled the rehab facility, but whether it was weeks or years, it was irrelevant. It was almost a challenge to remain hidden, at first. His homeless network was ever loyal - he was one of them, after all. No matter where he lived or how long he’d stay away, the back alleys and forgotten places would always welcome him. Mycroft could try to track him with CCTV cameras and poorly-hidden minions all he wished, but Sherlock had called these streets home off and on for years; he knew how to remain hidden.

A violent shudder rocked his thin frame as he huddled deeper into the threadbare blanket, tucking his knees to his chest to conserve what meager warmth he could. It was bitterly cold out, and the threat of a snow storm hung heavily in the air, waiting for the wrong opportunity to blanket the streets in ice and snow. Sherlock was grateful for the whiskey bottle nearby - it would give at least the illusion of warmth, as long as he wasn’t wasteful. A few of the others down the alley set some garbage alight and had gathered around the surprisingly cheerful blaze; he supposed he could trade his remaining whiskey for a chance to warm his hands for a bit, but for the moment, he valued solitude over warmth. 

In the end, alone was all he had. Alone protected him.

He pulled his stolen anorak more tightly around his chest, burrowing his head deeper into its hood, causing greasy, lank curls to fall into his eyes. He wondered briefly if he should conduct an experiment in the heat retention properties of dirt and grime before dismissing the idea as having little merit when shivering in the forgotten back alleys of London.

Sherlock sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him, wiggling his toes in his worn trainers and relishing the ache from the cold. He dropped his blanket to his lap to cover his legs, the torn denim offering little protection from the cold and wind, as he hugged his arms to his chest to conserve what little warmth he had, utterly ignoring the persistent rumble in his stomach. Food wasn’t a priority for him on the best days, and he hadn’t become hungry enough to dig through the bins for food rather than pickpocketing obnoxious tourists. Besides, there was little enough food in the alleyway. Sherlock was content to let what there was go to whomever wanted it more.

Though, if he was honest with himself, what he really craved was a hit.

But withdrawal had been hell, and as much as he wanted to lose himself to oblivion, it was too risky an endeavor. Dealers were loyal to the highest bidder, and he couldn’t risk information on his habits or whereabouts getting to one of Mycroft’s minions. He was fortunate enough to escape the rehab facility, all told. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to escape if his brother hadn’t hired idiots. 

A commotion at the end of the alleyway caught Sherlock’s attention, and he quickly curled back in on himself behind the boxes forming his makeshift shelter, hiding among what the untrained eye would mistake for a pile of debris. He tucked his chin onto his chest, breathing into his anorak so that the clouds of his exhale wouldn’t be visible. With any luck, whatever was causing the commotion would pass him by and leave him unbothered. 

The commotion grew louder and more agitated, piquing Sherlock’s curiosity. If it was one of Mycroft’s men, he’d have to run. He leaned his head forward between the boxes and detritus, observing and deducing as always.

It wasn’t one of Mycroft’s men, unless he’d taken to hiring invalids with a cane. The man - a soldier, clearly - was clad in a ratty jacket and jogging bottoms, his hands and head bare. Firelight illuminated his light hair, burnishing it a pleasing honeyed gold. He had apparently worn out his welcome at the fire, and either didn’t know or didn’t care that he was outnumbered four to one. Sherlock was inclined to think that the man didn’t care. He stood his ground with his cane in his hand, the injury that necessitated its use evidently forgotten. He held it like a weapon, his head held high and back straight. 

If bravery was, by far, the kindest term for stupidity, then this soldier found a way to make stupidity look _good._

And apparently contagious, as before Sherlock knew it, he was on his feet, ready to smash the bottle and use it as a makeshift weapon. It wasn’t ideal, but the jagged edges of the bottle could be just as deadly as a knife. It was a lesson that served Sherlock well in the past.

Thankfully, he hardly had time to emerge from the shadows concealing his hiding place before the man raised his hands in placating surrender, and backed away from the fire. The other four stood their ground, glaring after the soldier as he limped away. He would pass right by Sherlock’s location, and suddenly, Sherlock _needed_ to see this man, hear him speak, learn what was so _fascinating_ about him and his nearly-forgotten limp.

The man didn’t see Sherlock leaning against the wall in the shadows, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock spoke.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man turned towards him, eyes wide in surprise and hands up in defense. Despite being caught off-guard, his jaw was still set, and his shoulders square. He was startled, but not afraid. 

His eyes searched for the source of the voice amid the darkness, and Sherlock held out the whiskey bottle in silent offering.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, lowering his hands, but ignoring the whiskey. 

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again, impatience warring with amusement in his voice. 

“A - Afghanistan. How did you -”

Sherlock snorted and tossed his head, clearing his fringe from his eyes.

“Your posture fairly screams ‘military’, and you’ve had a military haircut before, but it’s grown out since then. I could see by the firelight that your face is tan, but when you held up your hands, I could see that your wrists are not, so you’ve been abroad, but haven’t been sunbathing. Your limp is pronounced when you walk, but during the argument, you stood with ease and held your cane in your hand as a weapon as though you had forgotten it was meant to help you walk, which says your limp is, at least in part, psychosomatic, so the injury most likely happened under traumatic circumstances. Balance of probability says you were wounded in action, if the injury was of traumatic origin. So, where would a soldier spend time in the sun and be wounded in action? Afghanistan, or Iraq.”

Sherlock took a steadying breath as he waited for the man’s reaction, tightening his grip on his whiskey bottle in case the man tried to answer the deductions with violence. He may have balked at four-to-one odds, but Sherlock was alone, and a deceptively easy target.

Instead of the derision he expected, the man huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“That,” he began, “was amazing.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he gaped at the man for a few seconds, his thoughts stuttering to a halt in surprise.

“That’s not what people normally say,” he said slowly, as if testing the words out as he spoke them.

“What do people normally say?” The man huffed a quick laugh, one side of his mouth twitching upwards in a lopsided grin.

“‘Piss off!’.” 

The soldier let loose a surprised bark of a laugh, shaking his head as his shoulders quaked with laughter. Sherlock’s rumbling chuckle joined the man’s higher-pitched giggles in spite of himself, the cold all but forgotten for the moment. As their laughter subsided, the man stuck out his hand and smiled warmly.

“John Watson,” he said.

Sherlock reached out and took it, noting how his own large hand engulfed the man - _John’s_ \- smaller one. He hesitated for a moment, debating what name to give John, but for some inexplicable reason, opted for the truth.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He extended his whiskey bottle to John again. “It’s no fire, but…” he shrugged. John accepted it, this time, grimacing as he took a sip and climbing over the mound of garbage to lean against the wall next to Sherlock. 

“Better than nothing,” he said, a smile in his voice. Sherlock imagined he felt warmed by it.

Sherlock sat back on the ground, and lifted his blanket in a silent invitation for John to join him. The man gratefully accepted, stretching his legs out in front of him. Sherlock found himself surprisingly comfortable for the first time in ages.

“So, why are you here?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock and waving his hand to indicate the alley around them. “You could do a lot better than this, yeah?”

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at John before looking down at hands in his lap.

“Why are _you?_ ” 

John shifted a bit and shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t afford anywhere decent on an army pension. Had a bedsit once, but I hated it. Figured even homelessness would be better than that dingy place.” He sniffled and glanced around, huffing a low laugh, his eyes landing on Sherlock’s again. 

“The homeless are eyes and ears everywhere. An invisible army, an inexhaustible source of information, hiding in plain sight.” 

“So, you’re gathering information, or hiding in plain sight?” John asked, his eyes alight with mirth and curiosity.

Sherlock grinned in reply, cold and hunger all but forgotten. A _clever_ soldier, then. 

“A bit of both.” Sherlock took another drink from the whiskey bottle. He felt a burning low in his belly that wasn’t due to the alcohol when his lips touched the same place on the bottle that John’s lips had touched. It was an unexpected intimacy that Sherlock was surprised to find he craved instead of a hit.

Judging by the way John’s tongue darted out and wetted his bottom lip like a caress, he felt the same way. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say...something...when he noticed fat snowflakes had begun drifting down like fluffy feathers in the wind. How had he missed that? Feeling emboldened by the whiskey and the urgency to get away from the coming snowstorm and to someplace warm, Sherlock had hardly formed a vague idea in his head before he spoke again. 

“Dinner?”

John cocked his head at the non sequitur, blinking wet flakes out of his eyes.

“I helped an acquaintance of mine avoid a murder charge by proving that he was in another part of town housebreaking at the time of the murder. He’s seen to it to provide a free meal when I show up in some misplaced sense of gratitude, and on bad weather nights, a room to sleep in.” 

John’s eyes bore into his as he spoke. Sherlock looked away, his earlier boldness giving way to anxiety. Had he gotten it wrong, misread John’s interest as something other than it was? Perhaps it was too much; after all, he _was_ offering to spend the night with a man he’d only just met.

John raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side in mock contemplation. “Are you asking me on a date? Because if you are, I’m starving.” 

As John spoke, he gingerly grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hand, threading their fingers together and raising their joined hands to his lips, planting tiny kisses onto Sherlock’s knuckles. His eyes remained locked on Sherlock’s, indicating that it wasn’t necessarily food he was hungry for. 

A mischievous grin spread across Sherlock’s face. A date with this man was worth the risk of running into Mycroft’s minions, and he knew his brother well enough that he’d want to compile a dossier on John before confronting either one of them. Sherlock would have at least that long with the man, and he found that even if tonight was the only night they would have together before Mycroft stuck his big fat nose in his business, it would still be worth it. 

John climbed to his feet and held out his hand to pull Sherlock to his feet as well.

“Lead the way,” he said, inclining his head to the end of the alley to the street beyond. 

  
  



	4. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dances, and John tries not to spontaneously combust at the sight of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually posted on time! Wonders never cease.

John was certain that Sherlock was going to be the death of him, but he would die a very happy man.

If he didn’t fall over from frustration, first.

The man wielded his long, lithe body like a weapon, and used every inch of it to play John as masterfully as he played his violin. He was a blatant study in sensuality, every move a tantalizing promise of tongues and teeth and questing lips. For him, there was an audience of one, and John didn’t mind when people gawked at Sherlock’s displays, as long as they knew they could only ever look; touching was a privilege reserved for John alone.

Except for right fucking now.

It started with a case (didn’t it always?) and though they managed to prevent a murder, the intended victim didn’t escape unscathed. It was a shame, really. John had seen their client perform with his troupe, and as the principle, he was quite good. But, until he recovered, the troupe needed to practice, and offered Sherlock a chance to stand in for him. 

John encouraged Sherlock to take the offer - he knew how much the man loved to dance.

He almost wished he hadn’t, now.

Because Sherlock never does things by halves, and If he could make  _ shampooing his hair _ look like a study in sex, then words didn’t exist for what he was doing now. 

John watched as Sherlock’s muscles tensed and flexed, his heaving chest bare and sweat-slicked as he enveloped his dance partner in a flurry of arms and legs and hips that screamed  _ pining lover _ . It seemed the whole performance was made just for him. John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock, and just when he thought he’d burst from the tension between the two, Sherlock would break it with a sudden mock-murder of one of the other dancers. 

It was perfection, and John was going to  _ lose his fucking mind _ before rehearsals were done.

Sherlock was, among other things, a first-rate performer, so while he was in-character, he never spared a glance to John, his eyes riveted only to his dance partner in apparent longing, or the murdered dancers in passionate rage. 

He knew it was only a performance, but damn, those eyes needed to be on  _ him. _

John closed his eyes and controlled his breathing, clenching his fists at his sides as he reminded himself that none of this was real. What was real was Baker Street and takeaway and giggles at crime scenes and moans silenced with kisses and shared breath.

He wasn’t sure how long he had tuned out the other men, but the sudden clamor of voices brought him back to reality. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, the other dancers were clasping hands and sharing exhausted smiles, promising to give it another go later in the week, before quickly dispersing. They filed out of the room, dimming the lights behind them, leaving John standing on the floor alone in the dark, waiting for Sherlock to reappear.

The room was still for only a moment before the now-familiar notes of the song started to play. John turned around, and glimpsed Sherlock, torso and feet bare, sauntering toward him in step to the beat, chin tilted down in flirtatious supplication as his teeth worried his bottom lip. His eyes were dark as he approached, pupils blown wide in longing and want and heat and love. 

This was a look reserved only for John.

He stood still, mesmerized by the way Sherlock’s body moved, leaning into his touch as he draped his body around John from behind, hands roaming freely over his chest and shoulders, hips swaying, warm breath ghosting behind his ear.

John turned around and cupped one hand behind Sherlock’s neck, tilting his head down until their foreheads touched. No words were said; none were needed. Sherlock and John stood alone in the darkened studio, breathing each other’s air and swaying gently to the beat, arms snaking around each other as they closed the gap between them, thighs to groin to chest. Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling in that way that John secretly found adorable, before leaning down and nipping gently at John’s lips, tasting of salt and something indescribably  _ Sherlock _ . 

_ This _ , John thought,  _ This is real. This is Mine. _

Sherlock’s hands drifted down to John’s, threading their fingers together at his sides, before slowly stepping back, leading John down the hallway to the showers. A giggle escaped John’s lips, high pitched and desperate, answered by Sherlock’s own deep chuckle as he turned, still clasping John’s hand in his own, racing towards the showers and the promise that Sherlock was John’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2ORVQ-Gj1Y) which is definitely worth the watch, if you haven't seen it already. The whole performance fairly screamed Sherlock to me (or maybe I've just got Johnlock on the brain).


	5. Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection. 
> 
> -The Bhagavad Gita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter supposes that there is no baby Watson.

_It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection._

_-The Bhagavad Gita_

  
  
  


None of this is what he wanted.

He knew what he was _supposed_ to want; he had resigned himself to that life ever since Harry gave convention the forks on her way out the door of their parents’ house. He wanted to join her, but he had to stay and be the good one, the _respectable_ one, so he chose to hide himself away and maintain the facade of the good son his parents could brag about to friends over tea.

_Facade_. What a funny word.

He supposed everyone had one, just some were more clever than others. Mary had one. 

_Nope. Don’t think about that right now._

All of John’s choices led him here to this moment, he knew that. His first response was anger, always anger. Learned it from his dad, he supposed, anger and blame. But John was a better man, in far better company than he deserved to be, and he knew where the blame really belonged, who should bear the brunt of his anger. 

Himself. 

He wanted to place it at the feet of his wife, who lied to him and shot his best friend. Who looked on with calculating eyes as the paramedics had to restart his heart for the second time in a week. _That_ was his wife, not the cheeky nurse who baked her own bread and refused to wear her glasses because she thought they made her look old (which they did, to be fair). Did she even need the damn glasses? No, not if she could make _that_ shot. _Surgery_ , Sherlock had called it as he was dying - for real - for the second time.

John set his face in his hands, unable to keep his own facade from cracking.

Not that it mattered - the only one who could see it was laying still and unconscious three feet away.

He’s not supposed to be still. It was eerie to see him just….laying there. Sherlock was always fidgeting, always _moving_ , as if his body rebelled at physical stagnation as much as his mind rebelled at the mental variety. Even when he was in his mind palace, Sherlock’s eyes moved to and fro, visualizing who-knows-what in that great brain. Hell, even when Sherlock was lethargic from boredom and was determined to remain a permanent lump on the sofa, he couldn't remain still. He would wriggle his toes into the cushions, or burrow his face into the crook of the armrest. Even asleep, he would twitch and all manner of expressions would cross his face, too fleeting for John to identify, but he could watch the man sleep for hours and never be bored.

Maybe it’s a bit not good to watch a man sleep for hours. But John’s doing it now, and can’t force himself to do anything else. 

Except think.

_Is this how Sherlock felt, when he was desperate for distraction?_

John would give anything for a twitch, a blink, any indicator at all that Sherlock was still _present_ , that his body wasn’t lying there vacant, alive in name only.

John heaved a weary sigh and shifted in his chair. The things were nigh unbearable to sit in for long; whoever designed them must have had something more like an Iron Chair in mind. He would endure the ache in his back and numbness in his legs, however; that torture was nothing compared to listening to the _whoosh_ of the machine forcing air into the lungs of his best friend.

_Friend_.

That’s all he allowed Sherlock to be, wasn’t it? Just friends. _Colleagues._ John wasn’t supposed to want more. He _needed_ normal. It was the adult thing to do, what he hung his hopes on while scrubbing sand out of his unmentionable places in Afghanistan. He would have a respectable job, a beautiful wife, a quaint home in a safe, quiet neighborhood, maybe raise a child or two. His adrenaline-fueled days were over. They _had_ to be. He lived life as a soldier and chased criminals in London’s back alleys, and found that life demanded too high a price, in blood, always in blood. 

_But God_ , he _wanted it_.

John stood for a moment to stretch his legs, joints popping as he moved. He looked over to Sherlock again, willing him to leap up off the bed with a smug grin, laughing at John for how easily fooled he was by the act. He’d even take the fucking French accent and drawn-on mustache if Sherlock would just _wake up_. 

But he didn’t. He was still and silent, the weight of it crushing John under brutal accusations, from which he had no defense.

His choices did this, he knew. His choices as good as put Sherlock there, in that bed. It was no different than if John had pulled the trigger himself.

It was his lying wife, after all, who decided that Sherlock’s life was a small price to pay to keep her secrets hidden, that John would be better off with her than with him. And didn’t John lead her to that choice? He shuddered when he recalled Sherlock’s blood on his hands, not from when he tried to save his life in Magnussen’s office, but before, at the Landmark, when he hit him for coming back. Sherlock returned and had given John his _fucking miracle_ , right when John made his choice to forget all about his past life of crime scenes and takeaway and _fantastic, amazing, brilliant_. John hit him, because if he didn’t, he'd kiss him instead, and he just couldn’t allow himself to feel things like that again.

He chose Mary. Not Sherlock. He had to. But Mary had always been John’s second choice, what he knew he should want, when who he really wanted had fallen off the roof of St. Bart’s.

_Maybe that’s why she shot him_ , John mused. _Maybe she knew that some part of me would have chosen him._

John sat back in the torturous chair and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. He needed a shower, but that meant leaving Sherlock’s side, and he couldn’t end his vigil, not yet, not with his murderous wife still loose. He had texted Mycroft, asking him to keep her away, offering no explanations. Mycroft wouldn’t need to ask, anyway. _Let him keep himself busy dealing with her,_ John thought. _It's the most useful thing he could do for the moment._

John was still a soldier at heart. He would not abandon his post. He would not abandon Sherlock. Not again.

_What would have happened if I had chosen him?_ John allowed his mind to wander - as if he could have stopped it, anyway. He pictured what life would be like if he had never left Baker Street. The two men would be seated in their respective chairs, a cheerful fire warming their toes. Sherlock would look over and give John that shy smile that only he got to see, the one that turned Sherlock’s lips into an adorable vee-shape and nearly crinkled his eyes shut. He looked so young when he smiled like that. John imagined massaging Sherlock’s scars (there were so _many_ now) and kissing each one in acceptance, in apology, in gratitude that Sherlock had come home at all. He imagined a fridge full of cadaver parts, experiments in the cupboards, breathless kisses after running either from or with the police….and John knew.

_This_ is what he wanted. He’d wanted it all along, but thought it was something he could never have.

But why not? If his past choices brought them here, then he can make a different choice, choose a different future for himself, right? 

He leaned forward in his chair, bringing his hand up to Sherlock’s cheek. He hesitated for a moment before gently stroking the flat of his knuckles along Sherlock’s temple down to his ridiculous cheekbone and back again, and leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear. 

“I made the wrong choice,” he whispered, nearly choking on the lump that had formed in his throat. “You said I chose her, but I don’t. Choose her. I really don’t.” John shook his head for emphasis and fought to keep his breathing even, the tendons in his neck visible under the strain. “Come back, Sherlock. Wake up for me, and I’ll make the choice I should have made from the beginning.”

John knew not to expect any Hollywood endings, that Sherlock’s eyes wouldn’t flutter open at his words, no matter how heartfelt. But he waited anyway, because if any human could grant John one more miracle, Sherlock proved it would be him.

Maybe he’d have to wait a bit longer, though.

He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and set his hand on his wrist, fingers reading the man’s steady pulse. It was as close to a cuddle as John could get without disturbing the tubes and wires keeping Sherlock alive. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. He was too tired to readjust, anyway, his eyelids having grown impossibly heavy as the days of sleep deprivation and worry took their toll. 

John didn’t feel the man beneath him wake long enough to grasp his small hand with his own, entwining their fingers before drifting back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the start of the story is taken from chapter 18, verse 47 of the Bhagavad Gita, for those who want to know.
> 
> It wasn't only John's choices that landed them there, but John's a bit of a wreck right now, so it's understandable if he's a bit hard on himself. Love makes people do and feel crazy things, after all. Don't worry - they'll all get sorted in the end :)


	6. Power Outage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds his old journal, and writes an entry as a letter to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a crap summary, but read the chapter anyway, please!

_ Sherlock, _

_ Well, the power is out, and I’m bored. I know, that’s your catchphrase, but I am. Not bored enough to get Rosie from Harry’s or anything, it’s just that the flat was quiet since I came home early and you aren’t back yet, so. I was digging through the bottom of my old wardrobe for my pocket torch and found my old journal - I told you about it, the one Ella said I should start before suggesting a blog. I didn’t think this would be my first entry, that’s for sure.  _

_ There’s something about writing out a thought instead of typing it. See, if you write it by hand, you can’t just  _ _ delete _ _ it. You have to scratch it out, and your paper looks like shit, so you think about what you want to say before you say it. Then, the words just sort of flow, like your mind is connected to the pen and, well, it’s just not like typing. I can write faster than I type anyway (ha ha, I can hear you now, thanks). _

_ But this isn’t a blog, is it? It’s a letter. One that you’ll never see, but I’m bored and it’s too cold and rainy to go anywhere. You’ll be back from Bart’s soon, I hope, so this is just to occupy my time, anyway. _

_ The thing is, I’ve been thinking a lot about you. No, not like that. Well, yeah, like that, actually. But I can’t just walk up to you and say “Hey, I’ve loved you from the beginning, but denied it because I didn’t think you felt things like that!” That’s a pretty shite come-on. I thought about asking if you wanted dinner, but no. Just no. Would you get it, anyway? I don’t know what it meant to you when Irene Adler said it. _

_ When I said you should go after her, that a relationship would complete you as a human being, I was wrong, Sherlock. You are already a complete human being, the most human human being I’ve ever known. I know I said it before, but I think I need to say it again. Just, I don’t want to see you with Irene Adler. I want you with me. Me and Rosie. But I don’t deserve you. Not after what I’ve done. I know you said you’ve forgiven me, but I don’t think I can forgive myself. Yeah, I was grieving for Mary, but I think she would have been ashamed of me, of the man I was after she died. How I abandoned you and Rosie both. She knew me well enough to know that I would be a right bastard, and I was. I almost didn’t save you. No, that’s not the whole truth of it. I left you to die. It was Mary that saved your life, again, because she knew I wouldn’t get it right the first time she did it.  _

_ That’s so fucked up. _

_ I had time to ask myself why she did it. I think she knew I cheated on her. She knew I wasn’t happy. I had this great life with a beautiful daughter and everything I thought I wanted. She knew me better than I do. I wasn’t happy. I was always looking for more - more dangerous, more risky, more not-normal. I think she knew that I was always looking for you. She knew I wanted what we had before you jumped, that life with you that I shouldn’t want, but I do.  _

_ And you’d give it to me, wouldn’t you? I mean, we’re solving cases together like we used to, even after what I did. Somehow, you still care. I’ve seen you with Rosie, you can’t deny it.  _

_ I used to think that you were this machine, able to turn off feelings and delete things you didn’t want to remember, but I’ve seen you, when you sing Rosie to sleep and forget that the monitor is on because she’s up for the third time in an hour and you get her because you know I’m exhausted. More than that, I’ve seen you take cases you would normally avoid because they were only twos and threes, but the client was desperate and heartbroken. I notice that you pester me into making tea so you can take it to Mrs. Hudson when her hip is bothering her too much to manage the stairs, and Greg told me about you vetting his dates to make sure he didn’t end up with another woman like his ex-wife.  _

_ You feel things, Sherlock, I get it. You probably feel things deeper than I do. Why the fuck do I have to write it all in a stupid letter, instead of saying it to your face? You’re the best friend anyone can ask for, because you care so much. I think I’m beginning to understand why you hide it so much by acting like an annoying dick all the time. _

_ But I see it. I  _ _ know _ _ it, and I love you for it. There. I said it. I love you. Been gone on you since that night at Angelo’s, if I’m honest. I wanted to try again - yeah, i  _ _ was _ _ chatting you up, but it’s hard to argue with “married to my work” and we barely knew each other then, anyway. I wanted to ask again, and I quit dating and everything, but every day I didn’t ask, it was just easier to let things lie, you know? Then Moriarty happened, and it was too late. _

_ I don’t know what you did while you were gone, and I don’t know if I want to know, but I saw the scars. I didn’t mean to, I know you like to keep them hidden, but I thought you were still out, and I walked in your room to put away your sodding dry cleaning, and you were asleep and, well, I saw them. I know what they are. I know what makes those kinds of scars. Fuck, Sherlock, why don’t we ever talk about the things that matter? How old were those when I threw you to the floor? God, I’m so fucked up. _

_ I fucked up. I hit you, and treated you like shit, because you hurt me, so I thought it was okay. But it wasn’t. I never should have treated you like that. I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. It could be you and me and Rosie against the rest of the world, if you’d have me, after everything. We could have takeaway and crap telly and I could kiss every one of those scars.  _

_ You just texted and I’m wiping my face so I can meet you at the crime scene you fucking  _ _ have _ _ to see in the fucking rain. Hopefully the power will be back on when we get home.  _

_ Shit. _

_ I didn’t mean to write home. But it is. It’s home. I want to come home. I want to say all this properly, like adults and not bloody teenagers passing notes to each other.  _

  
  
  
  


_ John, _

_ If you happen to see this note before I find you, which I highly doubt you will, but nevertheless, you’re an idiot. Come home immediately. Bring Rosie. _

_ I love you, too. Come home. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sherlock _


	7. Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why have cereal when we can have some hurt and comfort instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, but hopefully it's worth it :)

I had seen that look on Sherlock’s face before. It was the one he got when he was lost in a painful memory he’d rather forget. He used to go on about “deleting useless information”, like the solar system, but after Sherrinford, we learned it wasn’t 'deletion', but his genius brain rewriting memories, or blotting them out altogether in an attempt to cope with unimaginable trauma.

I’ve seen that look on his face too often, lately, and I  _ hate _ it.

I didn’t notice it, at first, so I didn’t know what triggered it. Sherlock was on my laptop (as per usual, he never could be arsed to use his own if mine was closer) and was placing a grocery order online. Not that I’m in any way grateful for a pandemic, but if there is one sliver of silver lining, it’s that now Sherlock actually does the shopping, since he doesn’t need to leave his chair or get dressed to do it. 

I was making tea, preparing the tray for Sherlock to take down for Mrs. Hudson, who really shouldn’t manage the stairs with her hip, when Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. He was going on about some inspector somewhere declaring that he had worked out the timing of a kidnapping based on how much of the victim’s cereal had dissolved in the milk, when his voice drifted off. I wasn’t really paying attention, but when I looked up and saw  _ that face _ , I wished I had.

I walked up to him slowly, looking him over for any signs of distress or an oncoming panic attack. 

“Sherlock?” I called to him, keeping my voice calm and low. I reached over and took the laptop, stealing a quick glance at the screen as I set it on the side table. He was shopping for cereal. Made sense, given what he was talking about. I had already set the laptop down and was turning away from it when a listing for one particular brand on the bottom of the page caught my eye.

It’s funny how a person can recall the strangest details from traumatizing events. Thanks to the fever and infection, I don’t remember much about when I was shot in Afghanistan, but I do remember that Bill Murray, the nurse that had helped save my life, had missed one of the eyelets when he laced up his boots that day. It’s an odd thing, but there it is. I don’t have Sherlock’s eidetic memory, but like Murray’s missed eyelet, that brand of cereal was seared into my brain with astonishing clarity. 

Gnash.

The box looked different, but I couldn't help but see Culverton Smith with a smarmy grin on his face as he confessed to being a 'cereal killer'. 

Shit.

I didn’t want to think about that case. I would be happy if I never thought about that damned case ever again. I couldn’t write it up, it was too painful. 

I forced myself to focus on Sherlock. His eyes were closed, his hands under his chin, his breathing a bit too even to be natural. I glanced up at the scar on his eyebrow; if I stared at it, I could still see the sutures, ugly and black and accusing while Sherlock was pale and wide-eyed and lost, offering himself to me in any way I’d take him because he didn’t know what else to do, even if it meant I’d beat him half to death and leave him to be finished off by a serial killer.

“Sherlock?” I called again. I knelt down in front of him, gently taking his hands into mine. They were warm, as always. I brought his hardened fingertips to my lips and gave each one a kiss, giving him new sensory information to catalogue and focus on to ground him to the here and now. I couldn’t stand for anyone to be near me when I was like this - Sherlock used to play his violin from the far side of the room to help bring me back - but he craved data, and touches from those he loved and trusted were what he needed most to help ground him. 

I’m still amazed that I’m the one he loves and trusts enough to help him like this.

I breathed onto his fingers and closed my eyes as I wrapped my hand around his wrist to check his pulse. It was to comfort myself as much as it was to monitor him. It became one of the things we did - set our fingers on each other’s wrists and feel each other’s pulses. It was one of the most intimate things we’d ever done, more than just holding hands. It was our assurance that we were alive, that we were still here and that everything was okay. 

Sherlock brought his hand up and cupped the back of my neck as he pulled me forward to lean onto his chest, placing my ear above his heart. His heartbeat was strong, and I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed into my hair, his hand stroking my back in a soothing rhythm. Neither of us said a word as we comforted one another. We didn’t need to; our touches said all that needed saying.

_ I’m sorry. _ _ I love you.  _

_ I’m sorry. I love you, too. _


	8. Skeptical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff. No point to it.

I hate working late. I was disappointed - normally, I’m home in time for after-dinner cuddles and a bedtime story with Rosie - but tonight, I’d miss it all.

Sherlock assured me that he could handle Rosie’s bedtime routine and that he truly didn’t mind.

I was skeptical, but what choice did I have? None, according to my boss. Not if I still hoped for continued work at the clinic.

I arrived home even later than I feared, utterly exhausted. The flat wasn’t on fire or cordoned off with crime scene tape; in fact, it was surprisingly clean. I suspect Mrs. Hudson’s hand in that. Not our housekeeper, indeed.

Finding Rosie’s room empty, I peeked into mine and Sherlock’s - our - room. Rosie was asleep in her travel cot, and Sherlock had fallen asleep on the bed, still wearing his suit and a dressing gown. I chuckled at the sight of him - apparently he decided that the dried clump of infant cereal in his curls wasn’t worth the bother, or Rosie had exhausted him too much to care.

I wasn’t about to risk waking them with goodnight kisses - I’ve learned it’s best to let sleeping babies and lovers lie. Instead, I toed off my shoes and climbed in next to him, nestled in close so I could fall asleep listening to his heart beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's harder to make a story with only 221 words - and have it make sense - than I thought. And in with 1 minute to spare. But then I had to edit, because of course I did. Twice.


	9. Velvet

John’s mouth opened and closed a few times as his brow furrowed in apparent confusion, reminding Sherlock of a particularly bewildered goldfish. He considered snapping a photo of John’s face with his mobile, but thought better of it. It may ruin the mood, such as it was.

After a few false starts, John seemed to regain his coherency. 

“Sherlock,” he finally managed to say. “What is this?” 

Considering the velvet box was open in his hand, it should be fairly obvious what it was. Sherlock would have preferred to do this in an entirely different scenario, and was planning something far more elaborate than apprehending a thief in a forgotten back alley that reeked of rubbish and piss, even if that thief did happen to be a rather talented parkour instructor and had led them on a spectacular chase spanning several city blocks, leaving both men winded, filthy, and their clothes slightly tattered. 

Actually, this sounds like just the right scenario, now that he’s thought about it. 

“Looks like a ring box if you ask me, mate,” the thief said. Sherlock glanced down at the man. Still cuffed to the skip; he’ll keep until the Met arrives.

John didn’t acknowledge the man, his gaze focused on Sherlock, his expression unreadable. He may well have been carved from stone. 

Sherlock slid his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff, simultaneously calculating the odds that the box had somehow fallen out of his inner coat pocket during the struggle while figuring out the right words to say. One never knew with John. He was an unsolvable puzzle, the perfect locked-room mystery, and every time he thought he found the key to solving him, John would surprise him with some new facet of himself. 

A wedding was actually the last thing on his mind. The whole experience, if he were open to it to begin with, was tainted by planning John’s wedding to Mary, and he’d had his fill, thank you. But marriage had a certain appeal, ignoring the practical appeal of legal standing. No, it was knowing that the whole world would know that John was  _ his _ , and that Sherlock was cherished in turn, that he and John were  _ family _ beyond question.

Sherlock pulled his lips into his mouth as he looked up at John through his lashes. He knew John would recognize the tell, but now was the time for honesty. 

“It should be fairly obvious,” he said quietly, his eyes searching John’s face, cataloging every reaction.

John’s voice was low and dangerous, carrying across the alley and sending a thrill through Sherlock, as always.

“I know what it is. I want to know why you have it.”

Sherlock twitched his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side as he took a step towards John. 

“If all goes well, I won’t have it anymore. You will.” He took another step. “I hadn’t intended to do this now, but it seems fitting, after all.” Another step. Sherlock measured his steps, sauntering the rest of the way to John, criminal all but forgotten. He watched John lick his lips and smirked. He  _ needed _ John to say yes, and sometimes his body was the perfect tool for securing John’s compliance. 

It was a game they’ve both been playing for a while, and as always, John responded beautifully.

With a smirk of his own, John’s eyes traveled down to Sherlock’s hips and back. “So, you were going to propose to me in a darkened alley with your clothes half off.” John huffed a laugh, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “People will talk.”

“They do little else.” Sherlock murmured, his lips ghosting across John’s. The soldier’s fingers found the tear in Sherlock’s ruined shirt and grabbed hold, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. Sherlock turned though, brushing his lips across John’s cheek before whispering into his ear.

“Say yes, John.”

John pulled back, his cobalt eyes locked onto Sherlock’s cerulean ones. “Say yes to what?” He smirked, huffing a laugh. “You didn’t ask me anything.”

Eyes still locked on John’s, Sherlock gently took the box from John’s hand and removed the ring, and slid the silvery metal onto John’s finger. 

“Be mine, John,” Sherlock’s voice was impossibly low, a panther’s purr. “And let me be yours.”

The sudden arrival of flashing lights didn’t phase either man at all. John looked down at their clasped hands, then back up to Sherlock, his eyes intense and shining. 

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I will, you daft bugger.”

Both men smiled as their lips finally met, sweet and slow and perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to wait for Valentine's Day for this one, but I'm impatient, and it's been burning a hole in my brain forever, and apparently I'm crap at telling myself 'no'.


	10. Handle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one wants to read chapter notes, they just want the story, so I'll only take a minute (well, give or take). Thank you - a million thank-yous - for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing. Hitting that "post" button is one of the scariest things I've ever done, even after I've hit it like a dozen times now, and you have been absolutely wonderful. You make me want to improve and keep posting even though I've dragged myself so far out of my comfort zone, y'all might need to use search and rescue dogs to find me.

It was a long time before John could walk past a Chinese restaurant without the memory of Sherlock Holmes assaulting his senses. Sometimes the breeze would kick up just so, and all of Baker Street would smell of rich sauces and ginger, and suddenly John was _there_ , giggling as Sherlock read the fortunes in his best _Alan Rickman_ voice, kissing lips sweetened with plum sauce and _want_ …. And the emptiness would come roaring back in full force, leaving John doubled over and choking back broken sobs. 

It has taken nearly three years, actually, and the presence of the man himself, before John could walk to this side of Baker Street again.

Even knowing Sherlock was waiting inside, John still hesitated. His life has been thrown into utter disarray since Sherlock’s return. A part of him wondered if he had finally lost his tenuous grip on reality and was drooling in a padded room somewhere. 

He gazed at the door as he willed his arm to lift and for his hand to pull the door open. His arm didn’t move. He walked past the door and circled back, only to turn away again. Apparently he wasn’t ready to go in just yet.

_You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle_ , Sherlock had told him once. He never did tell John just what about the door handle indicated whether the place was good or not. John assumed Sherlock was just taking the piss. He meant to ask one day, but then Moriarty happened, and John had missed his chance.

But Sherlock came back, despite the odds, and the Universe decided John should have his chance after all. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

_Oscillating on the pavement, John?_ _You know what that means._ He could almost hear the Sherlockian voice in his head chuckle in amusement.

John flexed his fingers and clenched his jaw, drawing a steadying breath through his nose. Was he always an open book to Sherlock? Was there any part of John that was private, that wasn’t exposed like a raw nerve? 

He didn’t think about how he was arguing against a voice in his own head. 

Squaring his shoulders with a soldier’s resolve, John pulled open the door and stepped inside. 

Before, Sherlock would have chosen a table with a view out of the window, often seating himself in plain sight. The ‘old’ Sherlock would have been scrolling through his phone, scanning for a new case, or perhaps deducing passers-by as he drummed his fingers in a staccato rhythm. The world never moved fast enough for Sherlock, who was always five steps ahead of everyone else.

The Sherlock seated before him now was a different man. He still cut an imposing figure in his Belstaff and tailored suit, but instead of claiming a seat by the window, Sherlock chose a table in the back, near the rear exit, and positioned himself with a clear line of sight to all exits and windows. His eyes flicked from one to another before settling on the faces of those near him and flitting back again. Not restless, but wary. 

John was familiar with the routine. 

Sherlock’s eyes landed on him the instant he opened the door. In this light, they took on a silvery hue, but softened as he smiled in greeting as John sat opposite, shedding his coat. Sherlock’s remained firmly in place, a bulwark against the world.

Both men remained silent as the same server set a pot of tea on the table. 

It was another thing that changed about Sherlock - he took green tea, now. 

“So,” John began, breaking the silence between the two men. “I’m glad this place is still here. Everything has changed so much since you were gone…”

“Hmm.” Sherlock sipped gingerly from his tea. “I spent hours walking around London, updating the maps in my Mind Palace.”

Sherlock held his tea in his hands, blowing gentle ripples into its too-hot surface. 

John licked his lips and swallowed, aware of his nervous tells and unable to stop himself. He didn’t want stilted conversation and awkward silences, but what else was there for two broken men?

“How is that?” He nodded toward the tea in Sherlock’s hand. He set the cup down and wrapped his hands around the surface, still staring into the cup as if he were reading the leaves.

“I acquired a taste for it in Hong Kong.” His lips quirked up in a brief smile. “The food is quite different there.” He paused, casting a glance up to John’s face, uncertain if he should continue this line of conversation.

“Yeah? What’s different about it?”

“I don’t know. I never got around to eating any of it.”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

The men lapsed into silence again. After a moment, John reached across the table and picked up a pair of chopsticks.

“Do you remember when we fought with these?” His eyes lit with mirth at the memory. “We were sword fighting, it was just after that we watched that _Star Wars_ movie and you were telling me how unrealistic fighting with a light sabre was. Anyway, my hand twitched, and my chopstick went sailing-”

“Across the room, I recall-”

“And bounced off some bloke’s head.” John giggled at the memory. “We tried so hard not to laugh, and you slouched down into your coat hoping he wouldn’t notice you.”

Sherlock smiled at John, a warm thing that reminded John of happier, more carefree times. “Your hand didn’t twitch, I disarmed you. And he wouldn’t have realized it was us if you weren’t giggling like a teenage girl.”

“I never did get that rematch from you.”

“No, you didn’t. Probably for the best. I’m not sure the clientele would recover.” 

The men lapsed into another silence as the server arrived with their food. Sherlock had ordered; how he knew John would want egg and tomato stir-fry, he’d never know. 

Speaking of never knowing….

“How do you do it?” John asked, breaking apart his chopsticks. “How do you tell a good Chinese from the door handle?”

Sherlock smirked. “You know my methods. Thought you’d have figured it out by now.”

“No, I save the dazzling for you.”

John realized what he was doing as he said it. He was flirting. 

And it didn’t feel awkward at all.

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto his, the silver a thin ring around the dark pupils.

“I’ve missed you, John,” he said softly. 

“I wasn’t the one that left,” John snapped. He lowered his voice when he saw the hurt look flash across Sherlock’s face. “Just the one left behind.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to the windows and exits, then the nearby diners, before settling on John’s face again, his brow furrowed in pained frustration. 

“John, I won’t apologize for doing what needed to be done. Don’t you think that if there was any way out _at all_ , I would have taken it?” He checked the entry points again, _door, window, door_. 

John sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Okay? I know we talked about all this, but I can’t just get over it” John snapped his fingers “not just like that. You were _dead,_ for _years_ , and...and, and things can’t just _go back_ like they were, yeah? I know what you did, and why you did it, but I just need time. To process this. To process you being back. Because it’s like I got my fucking miracle and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop -”

Sherlock grasped John’s hand in his. They were warm from holding the tea. His food still remained untouched. As thin as the man still was, John wanted to feed him back up. 

“I’m _here_ , John,” Sherlock squeezed John’s hands, letting John feel the solidity of him. “I’m here, and Moriarty is _not_.”

That was the crux of it. Sherlock came home, and Moriarty is buried in some unmarked grave, his network of criminals nothing but a memory. But for how long? How long until another master criminal comes along to capture Sherlock’s attention, use those he loves to burn him, drives him away again?

“But for how long?” John breathed. “How do you face every day after what happened and just, go on?” 

Sherlock scanned the room again, then set his intense gaze on John. He felt like Sherlock could see right through him, past all his insecurities and fears, past his own burned-out heart.

“One day at a time,” he said, finally, his thumb stroking John’s wrist. “He thought that those I love made me weak, which he exposed and used against me. But ultimately you were a source of strength. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t allow myself to fail. I had to finish my work and come home. Even if you hated me for it, you would be alive and that would be worth it.”

“I don’t hate you. God, I’m _pissed_ at you, and it’s going to come out every now and again, but I could never hate you, Sherlock.” John looked at their joined hands on the table, eyes tracing the new scars peeking out from the sleeves on Sherlock’s wrists. He kept his grip gentle; the missing fingernails were just starting to grow back. 

“It’s not even you I’m pissed at, not really. You were a victim, too. More than we were, I think. You just did a thorough job making sure there was no one left to yell at. It isn’t fair, and I’ll try to do better.”

“Just be here, John.” Sherlock raised John’s hands to his lips, his bottom lip caressing John’s knuckles. “You know I’m lost without my blogger.” 

Sherlock gave John a tentative grin, and John gave a tight smile in return.

“I’m not going anywhere. And if you ever need to leave again, you’d damn sure better take me with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am especially grateful for Ariane DeVere's wonderful transcripts. I'd be lost binge-watching the show again otherwise, and who knows when the chapter would have been done? 
> 
> Also, the thing with the chopsticks really did happen. I think the poor man who took the chopstick to the back of the head really knew who was responsible, but was gracious enough to let two giggling idiots finish lunch in peace, as long as no other chopsticks took flight. If you happen to be reading, Mr. Chopstick-man, please accept my assurances that any instances of flying chopsticks in the future will have nothing to do with me.


	11. Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock have a chat, and Sherlock does NOT dive into the Thames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a day off to do f*ck-all, and enjoyed every minute of it. This chapter is one of my favorites thus far, and hopefully it was worth waiting for.

The murderer might actually get away, but Sherlock had no intention of diving into the Thames after him. If the fast-flowing water, or the hypothermia he was almost sure to catch, didn’t kill him, John would. Besides, Sherlock knew that, even If the criminal actually survived his escape attempt, he wouldn’t remain free for long. With his name and face known, even Scotland Yard could follow the trail and find him. Sherlock wouldn’t need to.

He didn’t turn around when footsteps approached him from behind, though he was glad to see the man survived the chase after all. He wasn’t getting any younger.

“Kinda surprised you didn’t dive in after him.” Greg Lestrade leaned on his forearms against the railing beside him, a lit cigarette between his fingers. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, savoring the smell. It’s been ages since he’s had a smoke. “I thought you quit,” he smirked as he leaned in to breathe deeper, his smirk morphing to a grimace. Ugh, low tar.

“Yeah, about that,” he said, then shrugged his shoulder and took another drag. “You have your brother to thank for this. He’s driving me up the wall.”

“It’s your own fault, you choose to deal with him.” 

“Yeah, well someone has to, and I drew the short one, I suppose.”

Sherlock snorted. “You enjoy it.”

“God help me, I do.” Lestrade smiled warmly despite his complaints. He did that more often these days. Sherlock had originally attributed it to Donovan’s transfer, but was forced to change his opinion when he met Sherlock at a crime scene one day reeking of low tar cigarettes and cake. 

He didn’t want to think about the implications of his association with Mycroft.

“There was a time when you would’ve, you know. Gone swimming after him.” The DI inclined his head toward the fetid water, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “You were so reckless. If I was your dry cleaner, I’d have offed you myself by now.”

Sherlock shook his head and turned to the detective, a retort on his tongue, but quieted again when Lestrade raised his hand to forestall him. “I really did worry about you, you know? Even after you got clean, you never looked after your own well-being, like you didn’t matter. I thought you were suicidal. Especially after John….you know.” 

He shifted uncomfortably, no doubt remembering that dark time in Sherlock and John’s friendship. Lestrade had been the first to volunteer to be one of Sherlock’s minders after his last binge, and wasted no time in confiding in Sherlock that, though he was an officer sworn to uphold the law, it took all the restraint he had not to take matters in his own hands when he learned - during Culverton Smith’s litany of confessions, of all things! - what John had really done to Sherlock that day in the morgue. He was sure Mycroft would have ensured Greg had an airtight alibi, not that it would have stopped him if he hadn’t.

“The thing is, Sherlock,” he continued. “I’m glad you and John are all sorted. You seem happier now, and I don't have to worry about you killing yourself to prove you’re clever or anything anymore, yeah?” 

Sherlock gave him a tiny but genuine smile and nodded. “It’s good. Things are….better.” He locked eyes with the DI, his face earnest and eyes bright. “I’m happy.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows in surprise at the heartfelt admission, but smiled nonetheless. “That’s good, lad. I’m happy for you.”

The two men settled into a comfortable silence as the police worked the scene around them. Lestrade finished his cigarette, flicking the spent end to the water below as Sherlock contemplated what he was going to say next. This had to be handled with care; it required expressing a level of sentiment that Sherlock was not comfortable with. He knew he was the least qualified man to deal with this situation, but John insisted it had to be him. 

Sherlock looked down at his own hands and took a deep breath. The sooner this was over with, the better.

“You are aware of my regard for you,” Sherlock began, his words halting and awkward. “You have been a source of constant friendship, despite having seen me at my worst, many times.” 

Greg nodded with a sad smile, recalling what some of those worst times were.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then continued, grateful that the DI was intuitive enough to know when he needed to be silent. “You have become quite important to me over the years, and I can’t think of a better man to, erm, I mean to say....” He looked away, eyes searching the horizon for the right words. “As I have no doubt you are aware, John and I are…” 

Sherlock looked back to Lestrade, his eyes crinkled in bemusement at Sherlock’s cack-handed speech.  _ Sod it. _

“It appears I’m going to need a best man, and since John isn’t available to fill that role, you are my next logical choice. If you would. Want to, I mean”

The DI’s face cracked into a wide grin. Sherlock was a bit disconcerted at the sudden exposure to so many of Greg’s teeth, but he looked happy in a deranged sort of way. He wondered if this meant that Greg won the long-standing pool at Scotland Yard.

“Congratulations, Sherlock! It’s about time! It’d be my honor, lad!” He looked absolutely chuffed as he pulled Sherlock in for a bear hug, solidly patting his back. Sherlock stiffened briefly before allowing himself to return the embrace. It’s what men who are friends do now, he supposed. “When’s the big day?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “John has outsourced all that this time, I’ve had my fill of wedding planning. I’m sure someone will send you the appropriate information.”

By  _ someone _ , he meant Mycroft, and both men knew it.

Greg was about to say something else sentimental and probably trite, but thankfully Sherlock’s phone pinged in his pocket. He pulled it from his Belstaff and checked the text. 

_ I’m off to pick up Rosie, then headed home. Thai okay, or I could grab a Chinese? You wrap up the case okay? _

Sherlock felt warmth suffusing his cheeks as he typed out his reply. 

_ I’m on my way home now. _

“Goodnight, Greg,” Sherlock smiled at the older man’s surprised expression upon hearing him use his  _ actual _ name and turned to walk towards the main street to hail a cab home. 

He heard the rustle of fabric as Greg patted down his pockets, searching for his pack of cigarettes. Eyes crinkling with his own bemused grin, Sherlock waved the crumpled pack above his head. 

“Oh, you pick-pocketing bastard!” Lestrade growled after him, the smile evident in his voice despite his words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Lestrade's voice was fun; I may have to do it again. Also, I read some comment in passing - I don't recall where, but if it was you, let me know and I'll gladly give credit where credit is due - that suggested Sherlock and/or John falling into the Thames was a popular fanfic trope, and I decided to go the opposite direction with it. 
> 
> As I'm sure it's painfully obvious by now, I'm not from the UK, nor have I ever been there (but it's on my bucket list!) and I have no beta or brit-picker. It's just me and my mistakes.


	12. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock once described his mind as a rocket tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad, and he wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t entirely forthcoming either. After a long time of missing the blatantly obvious, John realized that the man felt, keenly and deeply, and that he wielded his amazing mind like a weapon to protect his heart. 

_ Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? _

  
  


Sherlock once described his mind as a rocket tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad, and he wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t entirely forthcoming either. After a long time of missing the blatantly obvious, John realized that the man  _ felt _ , keenly and deeply, and that he wielded his amazing mind like a weapon to protect his heart. 

He never even hid this from anyone, they just didn’t  _ look. _ As Sherlock liked to say, they  _ saw _ but didn’t  _ observe _ . John was Sherlock’s best friend - he, of all people, should have known. But he didn’t, and it took a (real) psychopath with an Irish lilt to expose the truth of Sherlock’s heart like a raw nerve. 

Now, when he found the man laying listless on the sofa, John knew. Sherlock’s vitriolic tongue was sharpest when wielded against himself, and his analytical facade would crumble beneath the heavy weight of the expectations he shouldered. John knew, because he helped put them there. Scotland Yard, the clients who laid their hopes at Sherlock’s feet, the media that reported his every move, even John’s own blog, demanded he solve the puzzle and save the life. Sherlock was a hero saving the day and slaying dragons with the unerring precision of a machine. 

But he was no machine, and there was no quarter given for when Sherlock lost, or when the criminals were caught at too steep a price. These were the days when Sherlock faced his demons of self-flagellation and doubt and  _ not being enough _ . John knew, and did the only thing he could do, what he should have done long ago - he waited for Sherlock. Every hour, he made tea with just the right amount of milk and a bit more sugar than normal, and every hour he poured out the old cup to return with a new one, just in case Sherlock could be tempted to drink it. He kept a ready supply of honey and butter for toast in case Sherlock could be coaxed to eat, and a warmed blanket on hand to ward off the chill. If wrapping the man in a blanket was all John could do to say “I love you”, then by God, he would. He’d never let the man feel cold again.

Sometimes, the tea, the toast, the warm blanket, and the steady promise of unconditional love weren’t enough to pull Sherlock from the depths of his self recrimination. On those days, John asks Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on Sherlock while he steps out of the flat. He isn’t gone long, and he always returns with a basket of chips, freshly made and lightly sprinkled with salt. They are Sherlock’s go-to comfort food, and John’s last resort. 

He sets them on the coffee table, always within arm’s reach, with a new cup of tea, and he waits. Eventually, pale, slender fingers gingerly lift a chip from the plate and disappear beneath the warmed blanket. It’s a promise, those salt-covered fingers, that though things aren’t okay at the moment, they will be. John just has to wait.


	13. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Boss, and is not amused.

John Watson was not a cowardly man - he has laid men out, then treated them afterwards, for so much as suggesting he did anything that even hinted at cowardice. But John is not a stupid man, either, and he knows real fear, perhaps better than most. He knew it when he nearly bled out under the Afghan sun, and again when a breaking voice bid him goodbye from Bart’s roof. John faced fear from bullets and fire and loss, and met each one with a soldier’s resolve. 

And, to his chagrin, he faced fear now. It wrenched a quiet whimper from his throat and set his heart thundering in his chest, this _ thing _ that nearly froze the normally stoic veteran in sheer  _ terror _ , was sitting on his desk, mere inches from his daughter’s exuberant face.

“Hi Dad!” Rosie could barely contain her excitement, but still spoke calmly, much to her credit. John didn’t think he could manage that much. “It’s my turn to watch Boss for the weekend.”

That explained approximately nothing.

“Um…” John cleared his throat, willing his voice to emerge as more than the undignified squeak it started out as. “Boss?”

Rosie giggled as only a nine-year-old can. “Yeah. I wanted to name her Charlotte, but I lost the class vote.” She furrowed her brow in her displeasure, which made her look so much like Sherlock that John huffed a slightly hysterical chuckle in spite of himself. “But her name is Boss. B-O-S-S. It’s an acronym for Big Old Scary Spider.”

And it was. A big, hairy, eight-legged nightmare that his precious daughter was cooing at as though it was a baby bird and not a venomous invertebrate that belonged on the business end of a well-placed boot. It definitely did not belong on John’s workspace. It would be a while before he could sit at his desk again.

“She’s an  _ avi...avi-” _

“ _ Avicularia, _ ” Sherlock absentmindedly corrected from behind his microscope in the kitchen.

“ _ Avi-cu-laria avic-u-laria, _ ” Rosie continued, flashing a wide grin. John didn’t know whether it was aimed at Sherlock or Boss, either of which could be equal parts endearing and disconcerting. “A pink toe tarantula.”

John glanced from Rosie to Sherlock and back again. “Why do we have it, then?” Surely he would have remembered Rosie’s teacher saying something about babysitting a giant spider, maybe had him sign a form? Unless she spoke to Sherlock instead….

“Because we have to observe her behavior and write a report.” Rosie said matter-of-factly. “It was either that, or  _ bookwork _ ” John heard an echo of Mycroft’s disdain in her words, and wondered briefly what the subject matter of their visits have been lately, but he had a more  _ leggy _ concern.

“Um...and Mrs. Hudson is okay with our  _ guest _ for the weekend?”

Rosie coaxed the hairy thing into her palm and gently set it on the branch in its enclosure. “Nana said she didn’t mind, as long as she doesn’t have free reign around the flat. And I don’t leave her food out.”

“Her food?”

“Pinkies,” Rosie gave a solemn nod. “Or crickets.” 

“Ah,” John could only imagine the spider eating, and nope, not a good idea. Change the subject, now! “Is there a towel, or a blanket, or something to cover the, uh, to cover Boss with?”

“Why would we do that? She can’t see if we cover her up, Dad!” Rosie protested, placing her hands on her hips in indignation. 

John eyed the enclosure with trepidation. “So I’m not tempted to shoot it, _ ” _ he said, _sotto voce_.

Rosie merely rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll find something.” She made sure the lid was secure before vacating the desk and trotting upstairs.

“Did you know about this?” John hissed at Sherlock when Rosie was out of earshot. The silence as he adjusted his microscope was all the answer he needed.

“Sherlock, the last time I saw a spider that big, I  _ shot _ at it!” 

“ Solifugae.”

“ _ What?” _

“Solifugae,” Sherlock repeated, eyes finally leaving his microscope and glancing over his  fiancé. “Camel spiders, not actually a spider at all, more akin to a pseudoscorpion -”

“I know what it is, Sherlock!”

“- and medically insignificant, unless you have an allergy I’m unaware of. Why are you bothered by it?” Sherlock furrowed his brows in his confusion. 

“Can’t you deduce it?” John snapped, then immediately closed his eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. Sherlock didn’t deserve his ire. “Sorry. I just hate the things. Always have. When I first got to Afghanistan, I heard all the stories. You know, how they get as big as your leg, or how they would chase after you if you ran, or how they got their name by leaping up to make a meal of a camel’s insides. I just about pissed myself the first time one ran after me.” John shuddered at the memory. 

As John spoke, Sherlock stood and retrieved a tea towel from the kitchen before walking to the glass enclosure, ostensibly checking to ensure the lid was secured, and draped the towel across the front to shield the tarantula from view. He settled his arms around John’s shoulders, drawing him close in a comforting embrace while chuckling at John’s relieved sigh. No one but he and Rosie ever got to see this side of the madman, the side full of love and care. It was something reserved just for them, for family.

“Mmm, my hero. Thanks, love.” John murmured into his chest. “I’d feel better out of the flat, though. A walk before dinner sound good?”

“I’ll fetch Rosie and grab my coat.” Sherlock pulled back from John, cerulean eyes sparkling with mischief. “We can’t be out late, though. Rosie has secured my services for the evening.”

“Oh?” John raised an eyebrow. 

“Mmm-hmm. She wanted to examine some of the urticating bristles with the microscope. Apparently my role is to piss Boss off enough to flick them at me.” Sherlock tossed John a grin and a wink before heading up the stairs to retrieve Rosie.

“Yeah, should be fun,” John replied to an empty room, not believing a word of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugo B.O.S.S. is the name I have bestowed upon my current, real life bathroom companion, a truly huge cellar spider. I don't hate spiders per se, but I am much happier if I can enjoy its company if it's way, way, way over there. I did hold and pet a spider once, not a pink toe tarantula like in the story, but I think of it as an accomplishment anyway.


	14. Ugly

They were meant to break us, the gaping wounds left as permanent reminders of their mocking cruelty, when we were at the mercy of those who had none to give. You didn’t mean for me to see your scars, but I did. I saw the shame that flooded your face, and I’m sorry you felt ashamed of yourself because of me. I never want to see that look on your face again. 

What do you see when you look at them? Do you see the tools they used to imprint your skin and sear their faces into your memory? Do you see a man defeated, each mark a brand on your spirit, a blow to your pride? 

I hated my own scars, but where I saw a loss of identity, you saw courage. Shall I tell you what I see in your scars? I used to think you saw everything, but I realize that you’re only human - sometimes you need to hear the words. 

I see what was meant to be ugly made beautiful by the strength of your devotion and resolve. Your scars aren’t signs of weakness - they are your promise to come home, a hope burnished in silver. Every scar is an exquisite “I love you” etched into your skin, a sacred vow carved out in blood and bone. 

I don’t see a man broken by the very worst the world has to offer. I see a man who loves fiercely and completely, who will go past endurance for the sake of those he loves.

I see a man who is loved in return. 

Do you hear me?

I will spend the rest of my life convincing you to see what I see. Every mark is a love letter, and I intend to answer every one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.


	15. Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does one do when the power has been out for hours, there's no cell service, and it's in the single digits outside? It isn't writing fanfiction, I'll tell ya that. I hope all of you are warm and safe and dry!

He couldn’t sit in the hospital room and stare at the bloodied patient lying on the bed, not again. Two bedside vigils were more than what any reasonable man should endure; John simply didn’t have it in him to wait by Sherlock’s side a third time, and he wasn’t certain if it was his place anymore, anyway. Their already fragile relationship had been burned to the ground, and why John just stood by as Sherlock lit the match, well, he simply didn’t have enough whiskey to even begin to contemplate that question.

No, John  _ had _ to walk away. The only thing he had left worth caring for was Rosie, and she was already a victim of Sherlock’s colossal mindfucks and  _ miscalculations  _ too often in her brief life. The man was why John was a widower barely a year into his marriage, why his daughter was already halfway to an orphan, and why he had yet another therapist on speed-dial.

John twirled his glass in his hand, staring hard into the amber liquid before gulping it down, breath hissing at the burn down his throat.  _ No, that’s not fair _ , he thought.  _ I didn’t need a therapist again until after the bastard jumped. _

It was another three fingers before John could admit that he didn’t know which of the two ruined the other first.

He glanced at the bottle on the sideboard, nearly two-thirds gone now. He had just bought it a few days ago, hadn’t he? Well, contemplating anything to do with Sherlock  _ fucking _ Holmes required a certain amount of liquid courage, didn’t it? John was still seeing his  _ dead wife _ for fuck’s sake, surely that excused some mental anesthesia. And now, when he closed his eyes, he also saw Sherlock as he left him in the morgue - pale and shaking, too weak and out of his mind to even defend himself properly, looking up at John with mournful eyes as he lay in a growing pool of his own blood and excusing him for his violence as if it were some sort of penance for him just being Sherlock Holmes.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Sherlock was just being Sherlock, wielding his acerbic tongue like John handles his Sig, unleashing his deductions with his usual vicious alacrity. John normally relished when Sherlock took a criminal down a peg or two, but this time, he wished the man would have been a little more human the one time it really mattered, that day at the aquarium. 

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked over to see Mary, this time appearing as she had in the DVD she sent Sherlock before she died. She didn’t speak - she never said anything when he was drunk - merely stood with her arms folded across her chest as she watched him, her mouth downturned in disappointment and concern. 

John fought to quell the anger bubbling just beneath the surface as he beheld the image of his dead wife, his mouth flashing her a parody of a smile as he raised his glass to her in a mock toast. 

“Stop being dead and I’ll stop drinking,” he muttered as he emptied the glass in one go. 

Apparently, John wasn’t as drunk as he thought.

“You know I can’t do that, John,” Mary’s apparition shook her head at him, a resigned smile twitching her lips. “I’m not  _ him _ .” She shrugged, leaning back against the wall.

“No you’re not, I know that.” John’s voice cracked at the end, barely a whisper as the words spilled from his mouth like blood from a wound. “Why did you do it? Did you even think about me at all? About Rosie?” He looked upward to keep the sudden tears from spilling down his cheeks as he forced himself to steady his breathing. The tears always threatened, but he couldn’t let them fall. 

“Maybe I was thinking of you,” Mary answered softly. She tucked her hair behind her ear, a girlish gesture that John always found endearing. “You already had to mourn him once. Thinking he died because you couldn’t save him shattered you. Do you really think you could do it again? Because you would, you know, blame yourself” She nodded to him, her eyebrows raised and forehead wrinkling as she spoke to him in an earnest tone. “Only this time there would be no magic trick. You know that, if he died for real, you would follow.”

“He  _ killed  _ you, Mary!” John hissed through clenched teeth, being mindful not to wake Rosie as she slept in the next room. “He couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut, and now you’re  _ gone _ , and I - I…” He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, hand clenching around the glass hard enough to crack it. 

He heard Mary walk around the table, and opened his eyes to see her seated beside him on the sofa. He could almost feel the cushion dip under her weight...almost. He opened his eyes and caught Mary’s gaze. She raised her hand like she wanted to caress his cheek, but John knew she never would. The ache surged like a lance through his chest.

“He didn’t kill me, John, and you know it. It’s not like he pushed me into the bullet’s path or anything. Besides, I kind of owed him. I did shoot him first.”

“That’s not the point,” John began.

“No, it isn’t. But maybe it should be.” Mary smiled softly at him, her blue eyes shining and warm. “I never even apologized to him, but he still worked so hard to keep us together, harder than we did, I think. You know I’m right,” she finished with a smirk. John knew this was one argument he couldn’t win - he had been the one to alienate her for nearly the entire pregnancy. It was Sherlock who kept in touch with Mary, who would text her about scans and doctor’s appointments and developmental milestones. At times, it seemed Sherlock cared more for Mary than John did. 

“Yeah.” John huffed a laugh that came out more like a sob. “He was more involved with Rosie before she was born than I was.”

“And why is that, do you think?” Mary’s smile slipped from her face when John remained silent. He didn’t want to think of why. It was one of the many reasons he crawled into the bottle during his waking moments, to silence his self-recrimination and loathing with the veneer of oblivion.

“John,” Mary chided. “You don’t really think he did all that for me, do you?”

“No, he doesn’t do anything for anyone but himself,” John said, his voice laced with bitterness.

Mary’s voice took on a teasing lilt and her eyes flashed with mischief. “You know that’s not quite true.” She sighed as she sprawled on the sofa, her foot nearly nudging John’s knee. “He’s your best friend, remember? Just how long are you going to hold what he did against him? You’ve forgiven me, and I  _ shot _ him.”

“ _ Was _ . He  _ was _ my best friend.” John didn’t even realize the words escaped his lips until he saw Mary’s face darken, her expression thoughtful. He bowed his head and took in a shuddering breath as the finality of his statement sank in, that his and Sherlock’s friendship was well and truly over.

“No, he still is,” Mary corrected. “But you want him to be more. You always wanted more. I knew I couldn’t compete with him, in the end. I just had to accept that he had a part of you that I never would.”

John looked back up to Mary, the habitual denial instantly on his lips, but she was gone, leaving him alone once more. It was all for the best, really, no matter how much more keenly he felt the loneliness now that Mary was silent again. She made her point, though, and he hated it when it was one he couldn’t argue against. 

The truth was, John couldn’t forgive Sherlock because Sherlock had hurt him more than Mary did. It frightened him, knowing that Sherlock had a power over him that his wife never would, and it called into question things that John didn’t want to think about, because if he did, he’d have to acknowledge what he and Sherlock  _ really _ were, and John could never allow that to be. John was drawn to Sherlock like a moth to a flame, and he would always follow, no matter how badly he burned for it. 

John  _ had _ to keep his distance, for Rosie’s sake, and for the sake of his own heart. 

Because the Universe was cruel enough to leave John in love with a man who could never, ever be his. 

But Mary did raise an interesting point. Why  _ did _ Sherlock work so hard to reconcile he and Mary, especially when it seemed counterintuitive to Sherlock’s own interest? He was a master manipulator, and Mary had handed him the perfect opportunity to rid himself of her and claim John for himself - and John  _ knew _ he would have fallen into Sherlock’s arms willingly - but instead, he was reserved and vulnerable, as though he feared that one misstep and John would walk away forever. The man didn’t even realize John considered him his best friend. Was it because Sherlock was oblivious to it, labeling it as  _ sentiment _ and therefore irrelevant?  _ No _ , John thought. Sherlock seemed surprised when John told him, not derisive like he would have been if he had known but didn’t care. 

John leaned forward to set his empty glass on the coffee table and braced his arms on his knees, tucking his head into his hands. He shouldn’t listen to what Mary said, no matter how much it made sense - she was a figment of John’s imagination and only able to say what he wanted to hear, even if he couldn’t acknowledge it unless it was in her voice. 

As usual, the only one who had the answers was hardly fit for company at the moment, the consequences of his spectacular relapse and near-suffocation having caught up with the man. He needed to focus on his recovery, not on John and his emotional crises. Sherlock had once told him that alone protected him, and he thought it was rubbish at the time, but John was no longer the man they both knew, somehow becoming a more dangerous man than he was before. Alone is what John needed now. Alone would protect them both. 

John sighed as he reached for his glass, intending to rinse it and put it away, but instead glanced at the whiskey bottle on the sideboard again. Taking the bottle in hand, he returned to the sofa and poured himself another glass.

  
  


tbc


	16. Trinket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Looks around furtively * Is anyone still here? 
> 
> All I can say is February may be for Johnlock, but so is March, and April, and all the other months of the year. It's my excuse for posting late, and I'm running with it.

He stared down at the velvet box in his hands, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he remembered the look on Sherlock’s face when the client made a show of presenting the box to him, cameras flashing and reporters murmuring about the Reichenbach Hero. _Diamond tie-pin_ , he’d said, his voice impossibly disinterested as he scoffed in derision. _I don’t even wear ties._ At the time, John had urged him to silence, understanding that was the best he could hope for. Graciously accepting the gift was a pipe dream at best.

As much as he complained about it, John always admired how Sherlock didn’t give a damn about social convention. People theorized about autism or psychopathy or him just being an arrogant dick, but John knew better. The man valued the truth above all else, and simply refused to allow something as mundane as some social construct to cloud his thinking or moderate his behavior. Where John was mired in the _socially acceptable_ and a _personable demeanor_ , Sherlock was free to express himself as he wished, and John burned with the jealousy of it. He could never allow a slip of his own control like that, so instead he imagined himself as a buffer between Sherlock’s abrasiveness and the confusing and conflicting world full of decorum and _sentiment_ , as though Sherlock needed any sort of translator between him and the world.

John could hear Sherlock scoff in his head now, and he’d have every right to.

Seated upon his bed, John opened the box to gaze on the tie-pin, the diamond long since removed. For a time, that diamond rested upon Mary’s finger, John having removed it and had it custom set for her engagement ring. He liked the sentiment of it, that a piece of his life _before_ would be the stepping stone to his life _after_. It wasn’t the biggest or flashiest diamond, but it meant more to him than a whole mine full of diamonds ever would. 

He never did tell Mary where the diamond had come from. He can’t say he knew his wife well enough to judge whether she would have appreciated the sentiment or not, and Sherlock’s return meant the gesture had lost some of its poignancy, anyway. 

John picked up the cold metal, running his thumb over the empty setting. He remembered after the media circus, when it was just the two of them in the sanctity of Baker Street once again, when Sherlock fiddled with the box in his hands. He was always fidgeting, touching things, moving, as if the energy that fueled him was too vast to be contained within a single body. John thought the tie pin would end up like all the other trinkets Sherlock had collected over the years - left in a corner to be covered with dust, forgotten and buried beneath the odd file or macabre curio. This time, however, John had looked up in surprise when Sherlock handed the box to him, his expression soft and mouth curved up in a shy half-smile. _You wear ties once in a while, and you would appreciate this far more than I,_ he’d said with a shrug. 

John realized then that it was the _show_ that Sherlock disdained, the gaudy presentation that rendered the gift meaningless. It wasn’t about appreciation anymore, having been reduced to a farcical retelling of gratitude designed to attract attention in an ostentatious display of wealth and clout. But this, _this_ was genuine. This wasn’t the gesture of a man repurposing his castoffs. Sherlock was _telling_ John something, but at the time, he merely accepted the box with a nod and a comment about making tea, and the moment was all but forgotten.

John held the gleaming metal now, watching the light glint off the smooth surface. He wasn’t sure why he kept it, bereft of its distinguishing feature as it was, but he couldn’t just have it melted down, or sold off as scrap. It wasn’t just a piece of their shared past, a symbol of simpler times when the scents of takeaway and illicit cigarette smoke mingled in the air with breathless laughter. _Is that why I kept it,_ he wondered, as _a relic of old times? Or was there more to it?_

He wore it once, at Sherlock’s funeral. He thought Sherlock would appreciate the gesture, somehow, before shutting it back in its velvet box and storing it with his medals and dog tags. The next time he allowed himself to look at it, it was as a bridge between his past life with Sherlock and his new one with Mary. With Mary gone and Sherlock written out of his life, what was it to be now?

He knew what it used to be. It was Sherlock demonstrating his appreciation for John, a genuine gesture of gratitude and friendship that John missed, having realized what Sherlock was saying only after he was gone. 

After all John had done, what words would Sherlock have for him now?

John set the empty tie pin carefully back in its box and returned it to its place next to Mary’s rings and John’s medals, before placing the box back on the shelf in the closet. He would have time to sort through the rest of Mary’s things later. Right now, he had a phone call to make.

_“Hello, Molly? Yeah, I know I asked to switch shifts with you, but do you think I could maybe switch back? ... No, I really mean it. I haven’t seen Sherlock in a while, and I think there are some things I should say. ... No, nothing like that. … Thanks, Molly, I’ll see you at six.”_

  
  


tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course it's to be continued....the end goal is Johnlock, after all!


End file.
